


Gretna Greenland

by Toodleoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, M/M, Marriage Law Challenge, Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toodleoo/pseuds/Toodleoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ministry of Magic has passed a ridiculous marriage law, and nobody is cooperating... least of all Hermione Granger and Severus Snape. An anti-marriage law story set right after the war. MLC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Charlie Has His Doubts

Charlie Weasley was a happily unmarried man.

If you were to ask his mother, she would be quick to tell you how her poor boy simply hadn't met the right girl yet, how he was too focussed on his work on the dragon reserve, and that if he would just meet Lulu Rowle's niece during his next visit home, he would move back in a heartbeat and begin populating Somerset with half a dozen redheaded ragamuffins of his own. Somerset or Avon. She wasn't picky. He could even set up his house in Gloucestershire if he so desired, but Staffordshire or Cheshire were simply too far north, even by Floo.

If you were to ask the man himself, he would tell you a different story. He wasn't missing out on anything, doing what he loved in a place that made him excited to get out of bed every morning. His mum could take her nosy intentions and keep them to herself. She could also forget about the kingdom of grandchildren she was already anticipating. During one trip home—before Bill was even married, mind you—Charlie had stumbled upon a stash of knitted baby blankets, booties, and caps tucked away in a storage closet during a stay at the Burrow. There had to be something wrong with that kind of behavior.

Surrounded by lush, overgrown forests in the Carpathian mountains, the dragon reserve had been Charlie's home for about a decade. It was the perfect location to raise and train wild things: laced with deep valleys and rumbling rivers and Transylvanian plateaus, remote and quiet, it was his slice own of heaven. He'd moved to Romania right out of Hogwarts, and he'd never looked back. Oh, he returned for holidays at least once or twice a year, and he always showed up if his family really needed him, but he had no intentions of moving back to England for good.

His last trip back had been particularly eventful. He had heard rumblings of Voldemort's return, of course. Ron couldn't keep a secret during his younger years at Hogwarts, so Charlie had already heard about mazes and chess games and basilisks. Eventually his whole family had thrown themselves in the line of fire. It had almost killed him when he couldn't return to visit his dad in St. Mungo's after that snake attack, so when they called him to join the reinforcements at the final battle at Hogwarts, he caught an illegal Portkey to London in under fifteen minutes and did whatever needed to be done. He'd stayed about a week after Fred's funeral, mostly washing dishes and clearing gnomes from the garden. It made his mum so happy to have another son around. When she made it through her third complete day without bursting into tears at the mere sight of George, Charlie packed his bags and arranged for travel back to Romania.

After his time away, Charlie had been welcomed back by the other dragon trainers.

There were always around two dozen or so working and living there. Maybe half were Romanian, and most of the others were from other places in Europe. Jozef, Peter, and Jana were from Slovakia, while Vuk was Croatian and Stanislau was Belarusian. Jean Luc grew up in Paris, and didn't let anyone forget it, while Anna Rita had come to them from Lisbon. Their ages ranged wildly from eighteen-year-old Ileana to 113-year-old Antonin, and they made a strange family of their own. He considered himself an brother by proxy to Ileana, a girl about Ginny's age who was trying to learn English by stealing his newspapers and cornering him to practice. Her English was probably better than his.

Since he was the only Brit, his contribution to the festivities on the reserve came in the form of a cracking bonfire and some of his brothers' fireworks every fifth of November. Mariana and Sergui, who did most of the cookery for the trainers, always swapped out the stuffed cabbage rolls for shepherd's pie that night.

Some days, he forgot he was English. It was glaringly obvious that he didn't fit in at first. He fuddled his way through the foreign language like a duck climbing mountains. Now, his Romanian was so good that he caught himself dreaming in it.

If anything reminded him of his heritage, it was letters from his family, his subscription to the Daily Prophet, and the rigamarole he went through every five years in order to renew his Romanian long-term resident permit. But not in that order. Thankfully, he had 4 years and 2 months left on this one, so it would be awhile before he had to fill out the _patruzeci și șapte de pagini_ (forty-seven fucking pages) and wait in line for weeks for the Ministry's seal of approval. During that time period, the Romanian Ministry liked to remind its non-citizens of it's ability to kick them out on their arse on a whim by putting restraints on their magic while decisions were made. If he didn't adore the country itself so much—the land and the people and the dragons held there—he would have found another place to live and work.

When he returned after Fred's funeral, he explained the unfolding of the events to his friends. They hadn't known if they would ever see him again, since the Daily Prophet had stopped production temporarily, leaving the Romanian papers to get creative in their storytelling. Half his fellow trainers thought he'd have died in the brutality of the battle, and the other half were convinced that he hadn't ever made it to England at all. So he took the evening and traced out the rise and fall of Voldemort over dinner and tzuika, savoring the sweet plum liquor as he proudly shared his family's role in the war.

Charlie knew that it hadn't really been his war to fight. He hadn't been involved for decades as his parents had, or participated in the Order like Bill and Fred and George. He certainly hadn't gone on the run with Harry like Ron had. So while he had wanted to do his part, he felt a kind of disconnect to the country he'd grown up in. He was glad to be back to work.

Now everything just needed to return to normal.

* * *

One morning in late July, Ileana began reading stories aloud from Charlie's newspaper.

"Your people are dying?" she asked him, eyes wide as saucers over her breakfast plate.

"What?" he asked. "That can't be right." He snatched the Prophet from her hands and read the headline: _Purebloods in Danger_.

Sure enough, the article went on to describe how the Pureblood families had risked their own magical abilities by only selecting other Purebloods to tie the knot with. With that level of intermarriage, there simply wasn't enough genetic diversity. There were too many shared limbs on those family trees when there were only twenty-eight families that were acceptable to choose from. Without intervention, the number of Squibs being produced would catapult beyond the number of magical children, and in less than a dozen generations, Wizarding Britain as they knew it would be no more. Scientists and arithmancers alike had confirmed the results. The article ended on a mysterious note, saying that the topic was in the hands of the Wizengamot now.

Charlie frowned. _What did that mean?_ How could the Wizengamot do anything to stop ponces like the Malfoys from breeding themselves into extinction?

He wasn't worried about his own brothers and sister. Bill had married outside of the country and Fleur was part-Veela, so he was safe. Percy would be more likely to marry a girl for her family's status at the Ministry than her blood status, George didn't have a discriminatory bone in his body, and Ron had seemed pretty cozy with a certain Muggle-born witch at the Burrow. Everyone knew Ginny was going to marry Harry someday, and Charlie thought his baby sister would probably be ready to take that step when she turned thirty. Or thirty-five. Or forty.

As for himself? A confirmed bachelor. Charlie wasn't ever going to marry. Not unless he found a girl who liked the smell of dragon dung, didn't mind the long hours, and let him do most of the cooking. He wouldn't complain if she were also strong enough to fell a tree and energetic enough to help him dislocate things in bed.

He handed the paper back to Ileana. "No, that's just political speculation."

"What does that mean?" she asked. "Speculation?"

He grinned, reaching over to ruffle her black curls. "It means you don't have to worry about me, Ileana. I'll be fine."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, more stories about the Wizengamot's proposals came out for public scrutiny.

One such option was property tax breaks for intermarried couples, with a Pureblood and a Muggle-born spouse. Another was financial credits for the children of intermarried couples to attend Hogwarts at no cost. Those were reasonable measures, Charlie thought, to encourage citizens to make the choices they preferred without forcing anybody's hand.

He wasn't terribly sure they would work, though. With the notable exception of his family, most of the Pureblooded families in England were wealthy enough not to care about any financial incentives at all.

A proposed set of restrictive laws came out next. These would ban marriages between anyone who shared a great-great-grandparent or closer relation.

After that came the most extreme measure he had ever heard of—a law to ensure more magical babies by demanding that everyone of age that could have children be married and start procreating immediately. There were time limits bandied about as well, whether the law was to go into effect in one year or three, whether the first child needed to arrive within four years or five.

Charlie laughed as Ileana read that one aloud. He tried to reassure her that it would never pass.

"But what if they take you away from us," she cried, tears streaming down her face, "and we never get to see you again?"

"Nah," he said, keeping his response cool and detached. "They'll pass a handful of those tax-break laws. They will never pass a marriage law that makes people start a family. I mean, they've been through a lot there in the last year. No Ministry would ever force people to marry against their will. That's barbaric."

"But what if they do?" she asked.

"They won't."

"But what—"

He clapped a calloused hand over her mouth. "Ileana, slow down. They won't do that. But if they do, my permit is still good here for another four years. That gives me time to apply for political asylum here."

She nodded.

He let go of her mouth and playfully elbowed her in the ribs. "You should be happy. Maybe then I'll finally become Romanian, huh?"

They went on with breakfast as usual, and headed out into the fields with the others to tag a pregnant Hornback. Charlie tried to shrug off his conversation with Ileana, but then thought of everything the Ministry had pulled in the last decade: the establishment of the Muggle-born Commission, allowing the infiltration of Voldemort's supporters, the Minister trying to bribe Harry into a public relations position.

 _They wouldn't,_ he thought _. Would they?_


	2. In Which Hermione Declares Her Intentions

Hermione Granger was a happily unmarried woman.

A very happily unmarried woman, happily seated amongst her friends at the Burrow and happily tucking in to a breakfast feast.

The late summer light shone through the windowpanes into the happy home, reflecting off juice glasses and catching the mirror in the hallway at an odd angle. Books and wands were set aside for now in the sitting room, awaiting their use when the morning meal was over. Hermione and Ron and Harry and Neville surrounded the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen, all scrambling for eggs and sausages and stewed tomatoes. Whenever one plate emptied, usually falling victim to Ron's appetite, Molly appeared with a pan in hand, doling more goodies out for everyone to eat.

Hermione sipped her morning cuppa, a nice, strong orange pekoe that she allowed to steep a few minutes more than was strictly necessary.

The war over and done with, it was nice to return to some semblance of normalcy. Gone were the days of fearing for her life, running from killer snakes, and withstanding unbearable torture at the hands of her schoolmate's auntie. Eighteen was a rough age for anyone, but for most eighteen-year-olds, this consisted of unexpected acne and applications for university rather than a gritty fight for survival. After all they had gone through, Hermione was glad to return to the busyness of schoolwork.

She was so proud of her boys.

She had been meeting Ron, Harry, and Neville at the Burrow almost every day over the summer, in accordance with the rigid timetables she had written up for their N.E.W.T. revision. Their exams were only a few days away, and even though their schooling had been completely forgotten during their time on the run, Hermione felt confident that she and her friends were in good stead for high marks. Well, as high as any of them were going to get anyway, she consoled herself. Ron was never going to walk away with more than a handful of N.E.W.T.s, but he should scrape by with enough to get him enrolled in the Auror program with the Ministry. Harry was going to be fine, and Neville's improvements in her absence were quite impressive. The schedule rotated through all their shared subjects, beginning after breakfast each day and ending just before dinner.

This warm August morning, a flurry of owls pecked at the window above the sink. When Molly opened it, three owls came delivering newspapers, with one for Hermione, one for Harry, and one for the Weasleys themselves.

Ron was buried under a pile of blood sausage, so Neville took the Weasley's copy of the Prophet and set it down on the counter behind him.

Harry accepted his copy, offering the barn owl a piece of sausage in return. "How do you always know where we are?" he asked the beautiful bird. He looked up at the others. "It's a good thing Voldemort never used the Prophet's owls to track us down last year."

Having paid her owl, Hermione unrolled her paper and began to read the cover story.

Bollocks.

It had passed.

That idiotic law had actually passed.

Hermione couldn't believe it. Oh, there had been rumblings and murmurs about some kind of marriage law, but she had assumed it would be one of the restrictive laws to pass. Something that told Purebloods they wouldn't be allowed to procreate with their second cousins anymore, or that ensured a greater degree of kinship between the couple getting married.

She hadn't been expecting _this_.

The Daily Prophet had been ominous for weeks. There had been a solid month's worth of 'The Return and Final Fall of He-Who-Can-Now-Be-Named," followed up by stories on cleaning up the Ministry and sentimental tributes to those who had fallen in battle. Once the hubbub of war had died down, a number of reports on the State of Wizarding England started to appear in the press.

Hermione had been relieved by the first few, all on the state of education. The Wizengamot had decided to create a flexible testing system for all O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students, giving students the option to prepare at their leisure and take their exams at the end of August. O.W.L. students would be expected to return to their sixth year at Hogwarts, while N.E.W.T. students would be ready to enter this brave new Post-Voldemort world. Hermione was fine with these stories.

It was the series of reports on the declining magical abilities of Purebloods that had been troubling. Evidently, nobody had ever warned the elite of Wizarding society that a limited gene pool produced terrible results. Since they couldn't be arsed to check Muggle history, they had no idea how repeatedly marrying your cousin led to a Hapsburg lip or a severely stunted intellectual development. Personally, Hermione thought it a fitting punishment for their bigoted attitudes. It was delightfully Darwinian, as those fools who wailed about Muggle-borns stealing magic were now on the verge of losing their own, simply because of they wouldn't look at those same Muggle-borns as social equals.

In light of the war they had all fought, it was not the time to remind people about the problems between Purebloods and Muggle-borns. At least, that's what Hermione thought. Now was the time to deemphasize their differences and move forward as a unified country.

The new Minister of Magic was a valued member of the Order of the Phoenix and one of the most capable wizards Hermione had ever met, but Kingsley was also a Shacklebolt. Being a Shacklebolt meant something. As such, his family was at stake. The Shacklebolts were listed along with the Malfoys, Parkinsons, Weasleys, Yaxleys, Rowles, Prewitts, and others in the _Sacred Twenty-Eight Pureblood Families of Wizarding England_ compiled by Cantankerous Nott in the early 1930s. The illustrious history of the Notts was, of course, the first story in the book, but all Pureblood family trees were outlined, going back centuries. Minister Shacklebolt had a vested interest in preserving and protecting all his citizens, and he was clearly willing to take unusual steps to promote the health of his society.

Funny how he was unwilling to include himself in the age range of marriageable wizards. The age line was conveniently two years younger than Kingsley was himself.

* * *

The fireplace began coughing up smoke in the other room, and soon George came bounding into the kitchen, newspaper in hand. Hermione was impressed by how well he was doing these days without Fred. That first month had been so hard on him, but he threw himself back into his work at the shop in honor of his fallen brother. He kissed his mum on the cheek on his way past the stove and pulled up a chair at the table.

"Did you lot read this?" he asked, a look of panic on his face as he waved the newspaper before them.

Harry looked up from his eggs. When he saw what George was holding, he snatched his copy out from under his seat, unfolded it, and began to read.

With Neville looking over Harry's left shoulder and Ron over Harry's left, the boys slowly caught up on the news.

"Well, it looks like we're all getting married," Ron said casually.

"How can you say that?" George asked, seething with desparation. He stood up and began pacing a rut in his mum's kitchen floor. "I'm too young to marry!"

"You're twenty," Ron said, attempting a spirit of helpfulness. "That's three years past legal."

George glared at his brother.

"They're giving us until the end of the year," Neville said, quiet and concerned. All the color drained from his face. "Three and a half months to marry someone that fits their criteria, and another three years to start having kids."

"How very _generous_ of them," Hermione said, her voice laced with sarcasm. She could hardly believe the autocratic garbage the Ministry was trying to get away with.

"I suppose..." Harry began, piling some baked beans high on his toast. Dear, sweet Harry. He always tried to make the best of things. "I suppose that's no _so_ bad, is it? Ginny and I were getting serious anyway, and I always thought I'd marry her someday."

"You'd better work on your proposal skills, mate," George said, snatching a few pieces of buttered toast from a plate. He slathered them with marmalade and took an enormous bite. "Birds don't like it if you hand them a ring and tell them you see them as an eventuality."

"Yeah," Harry said, clearly distracted. "I'll have to come up with something special."

"How about you, Ronnikins?" George asked slyly. He elbowed Hermione in the side. "Do you have your eye on someone?"

A flush the color of his hair crept down his neck. "Blimey, I dunno..."

He received a smack across the back of the head from his older brother.

Hermione had had enough. She had wasted too much time during her sixth and seventh years pining after Ron, and when they finally kissed in the midst of battle, she realized that it would never work. She knew that Ron had come to the same conclusion, since he hadn't pursued her since. Frankly, revising with him over the summer solidified all those thoughts. Watching him fall asleep on his Herbology textbook and flick bits of paper at a befuddled Neville had killed any lingering romantic feelings she held for the redhead. They cared for each other and had been through so much together, but they valued different things. Any marriage between them would be disastrous. She spoke up. "Don't worry about me, George. I'm not getting married anytime soon."

"What do you mean, Hermione?" Ron asked. "You have to. The law says so. The Ministry will come after you!"

"Oh, please, Ronald." Hermione rolled her eyes. "What could they possibly do to me?"

"They'll break your wand!" he cried, so concerned for his friend that he momentarily stopped eating.

"If they do, I'll get another," she replied, collected and self-possessed. Hermione didn't know how many wand makers there were in the world, but after seeing the caravaners and campers at the Quidditch World Cup, she knew she had options. There must be dozens, if not hundreds of wand makers who would sell her one. "France, maybe? I could ask Fleur who she recommends."

Neville frowned. "What if they put a trace on people who don't get married? Like with underage magic or saying Voldemort's name."

"I sincerely doubt the Ministry could manage that," she said, scoffing. "But let's say that they do. Let's say they take away my wand and I can't get another." Hermione looked around the table at the four pairs of eyes on her.

"Yeah?" George asked.

"I could be perfectly happy without my it," she said, primly folding her paper back into its original position. The first eleven years of her life were arguably much saner than the last seven, and she hadn't had a wand for any of those. "Beyond the fact that I can already manage bits of wandless magic, I can always live with Mum and Dad and enroll in university. They'd probably be thrilled to have me back since I've been away so long."

Ron gasped, dropping his fork in a clatter. "You mean, you would... you would leave us, Hermione?"

Neville, Harry, and George wisely kept their traps shut while Ron and Hermione had it out.

"What?" she asked. "No. I wouldn't be leaving you."

"But without a wand..." His voiced trailed off.

"I'll still be able to visit you here, or Harry in London. I'll simply take the train." She smirked. "Or you'll have to Apparate to get me. You can side-along a Muggle, so why not a wandless Muggle-born?"

Ron looked at her as if she had grown three heads.

Hermione continued on. "The Ministry might be able to scare someone like Lavender or Pansy into getting married. Neither of them have ever operated in the Muggle world, so the thought of getting a job or an education without magic might be enough to terrify them into a forced marriage." A steely look took over her features, one that Ron and Harry recognized all too well. "They don't scare me."

Harry seemed impressed.

"Where are your backbones?" she cried, waggling her finger in all the boys' faces. "We've been defying the Ministry for years. Haven't we?"

Ron, Harry, Neville, and George all watched the witch warily. They were all careful not to make sudden moves around Hermione when she was on a rampage for justice.

"Haven't we?" she repeated, clearly expecting a response.

They just stared at her with wide eyes.

Harry shrugged. "We have."

"I don't care what the bloody Ministry says. I might stay single forever just to spite them," Hermione replied, standing up and waving the newspaper above her head in a call to arms. "You can go along with it if you like," she said, defiant, "but you don't have to." She looked each of her boys in the eye. "We don't have to do this if we don't want to, especially if we band together. We can find another way."

Hermione had to slow herself down. She was working herself into a tizzy. She took a deep breath, and thought of how much could change with the passage of the law. Of how much would change. It was inevitable even if the government hadn't thrown them this curveball, she supposed. Everything changes when you leave school and head out into the world.

She thought of the tenderness growing between Harry and Ginny. He needed to know that she would be behind him, no matter what. "Maybe it's not a terrible sacrifice for some of you, and maybe it's only confirming what you would be doing anyway." She raised her eyebrows at the young man who was like her brother, signaling her approval of his plan to propose.

Harry nodded in understanding.

"If that's your choice," Hermione continued, addressing Harry first before looking at the others. "I will always love and support you."

"But Hermione," Ron said, frantic and worried, "you don't understand. You need to get married. You need to—"

"No, Ronald," she stated, interrupting him before he said anything else he would later regret. She took another long sip of her tea. "I don't _need_ to do anything. I am never, ever getting married."


	3. In Which Neville Forms a Plan

Neville Longbottom was an unhappily unmarried man.

Very unhappily unmarried. Wretchedly miserable, actually.

That misery was a brand new phenomenon. He had been quite happy in his single status as of twenty minutes ago, but that was before he learned that his Ministry was giving him an ultimatum—be married by January 1 or hand over your wand. What kind of choice was that? Particularly since the only witch who had caught his eye was too young to be eligible. Even in the best of all possible worlds, he didn't want to marry her now. Maybe six or seven years from now, when they were both settled in their careers and knew themselves a little better.

Not that it mattered, he thought glumly. She was almost mythical in his mind, a free spirit who wouldn't be shackled by a man as staid and ordinary as he was.

Truth be told, he barely thought of himself as a man. The cake his Gran had ordered for him last month carried eighteen candles— _eighteen!_ —and that wasn't enough to make someone ready for marriage, was it?

Hearing Hermione's declaration had given him a boost of confidence. _Why_ did _Ron and Harry think they had to go along with the Marriage Law?_ he wondered. They never went along with any of the other things the Ministry had inflicted upon them before.

Neville considered his own status. He was a Longbottom, which meant that he was supposed to marry someone who wasn't a Pureblood. That meant that a certain blonde Ravenclaw was still technically available to him, although she didn't come of age until after the law went into effect.

"Say, Hermione," he began, scouring the article in the Daily Prophet again for good measure, "do you know what they'll do with people who are too young for the Marriage Law?"

"Like who?" she asked. She had already regained her cool after Ron had stomped off to the backyard. Now she was sitting almost demurely as she sipped her tea.

"Like Ginny?" Harry offered.

"Er... _Right_ ," Neville said. "Like Ginny." He looked at Harry. The two of them had so much in common: both Gryffindors, birthdays a day apart, no parents to guide them through life. But there were some big differences as well. Everybody knew that Harry was incredibly brave. He was also clever and good at Quidditch and popular. When it came to girls, Harry was the luckiest bloke alive. Even without asking, Harry knew that the girl of his dreams would say yes when he proposed. Neville wanted to be happy for his friend, he did, but he also hoped that Harry appreciated his good fortune. _Harry_ didn't have to panic about badgering a girl into matrimony. The only date Neville had ever been on was with Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball, and she had just been being nice to him. The whole time, the only person she really wanted to be with was Harry. "Harry, how will you marry her if she's not of age?"

"Well," George said, buttering another slice of toast, "Gin's birthday was last week, so she's fine." He piled up a plate of food and headed out to the garden to talk some sense into his younger brother, leaving Neville, Harry, and Hermione to themselves.

"Harry," Hermione said, a note of warning in the timbre of her voice, "You're not going to deny her an education, are you? She still has a year left of school."

"No, no! I would never do that. I couldn't anyway. Ginny would hex me within an inch of my life. I figure I'll propose now, and we'll marry when... when..." Distracted by some unspoken thoughts, he whipped out his edition of the newspaper again, and his eyes scanned the pages. "They wouldn't make her marry while she's at school, would they?"

"Nope!" Neville declared triumphantly. He pointed to the line in the article that described the rolling implementation of the Marriage Law as people came of age. "It says that they get six months after their N.E.W.T.s before the law applies to them or six months after they come of age, whichever comes last."

"That's _something_ , at least," Hermione huffed. "I would have had to have words with Kingsley if he denied us our education."

"Marrying us off like cattle wasn't enough?" Neville asked.

"Only those of you who stick around," she said, winking at her friend.

"Er... How will that work for Gin and I, then?" Harry asked. "Six months after my N.E.W.T.s is the middle of March, and she'll still be in school."

"How can Minister Shacklebolt keep you from marrying who _you_ want to marry?" Neville asked. "I know you don't want all the attention about defeating Voldemort, but...but... Doesn't he sort of have to give you whatever you want? You _are_ Harry Potter, after all."

Harry looked thoughtfully. "I don't want to get an extra favor just because of my name."

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione cried. "You are not asking for special treatment when you're asking to opt out of one aspect of this horrid, horrid law. Look at you! You're actually willing to go along with the thing, which is more than most people will do."

Neville wondered about Hermione's theory. _Would_ most people fight the law? He assumed that most people would simply find someone and throw a big party with a white dress and a cake. He'd grown up in an old Wizarding family, and he had never heard of any kind of revolt against the government. Outside of the medieval riots that Professor Binns intoned in History of Magic class, of course.

"Maybe I will," Harry asserted. "It's the least Kingsley could do, isn't it?"

"It shows a gaping hole in the law, " Hermione added. She sliced open a grapefruit and attacked it with one of those pointy spoons. "Right now, people can pick who they want to marry. It doesn't matter if one of them is older or younger than any other. Yes, it's still awful in every conceivable way, but there's some level of choice involved."

Neville nodded. Hermione was scary brilliant. Even more terrifying than his Gran. He didn't think Kingsley stood a chance against her in an argument, or any other wizard, for that matter. He'd even seen her put Dumbledore in his place on one occasion. _Well_ , he reasoned, _Professor Snape could have kept up with her_. He had died in the final battle, though, so Hermione was now in a class all her own.

"Now think about what would happen in a year if Kingsley doesn't make any changes to the law," Hermione said. "Everyone has to get married within six months of graduation. That means that the only person anyone will ever marry will have to be in their year at Hogwarts. Everyone older than you would already be married, and everyone younger would be ineligible for the law. That's terrible! You might as well tell everyone at Hogwarts that they can't even date someone outside their year. What's the point? They'll have to marry someone else, someone in their year, right after they finish up at school."

"I didn't think about that," Harry said.

"I didn't, either," Neville agreed. "This marriage law business isn't even well thought out, is it?"

Hermione just hung her head.

"Do you think Kingsley and the Wizengamot even considered what would happen in the future?" Neville asked. Everything that Hermione said made so much sense. Surely _someone_ in the government would have taken all of these issues into consideration.

"I don't know," she replied. "I know they're worried about the rising Squib population, but this isn't the way to solve that problem. We need a plan."

Neville silently agreed.

"Why, they could be encouraging people to get to know their Muggle neighbors," she continued. She stabbed at her grapefruit one last time before throwing it onto the table. "That would rebuild the population much faster."

George and Ron finally returned from the garden, both slightly grubbier than when they had left.

"Ten gnomes over the fence in less than a minute," Ron bragged. He looked like he was waiting for some sort of congratulations."Dad'll be so disappointed."

Hermione wrinkled her nose and shot Cleaning Charms at both of them before they sat down again at the table.

"Charlie got two dozen in under a minute once," George stated. He poured the last of the coffee from the percolator into his cup. "He's got the record to beat."

"Oy, Charlie!" Ron said, slapping himself on the forehead. "What's he going to do? Has he got to marry a British girl or what?"

They all looked to Hermione for answers.

She shrugged. "I don't think it matters if she's British or not, but I think he still has to get married. If he follows the law, that is."

"I don't think he's ever wanted to get hitched," George said, speaking slowly and methodically. "He dates a fair bit, but he's never been serious about a girl." He slung one arm around Neville's shoulder. "Drives mum crazy, it does."

"What if he refused to come back to England?" Harry asked. "What would happen then?"

"I wonder..." said Hermione. She was staring off into space, a look of calculation on her face. "Outside of England? Hmm..."

"Wonder what?" George asked.

"I've got to talk to some people," Hermione said, shaking herself out of her reverie. "I'll let you know once I've developed a plan."

The others debated the fate of the second eldest Weasley while they cleaned up their plates and squeezed all the leftover food back into the refrigerator.

All the while, Neville thought about a girl. A sweet girl with more bluntness and honesty and goodness in her pinky finger than anyone else had in their whole body. "Say, Harry," Neville piped up, "when you talk to Kingsley, you should bring all of this to his attention. Extending it from six months to a year or more. Not just for you," he said, gulping and blushing past his collar, "but for everyone."

* * *

N.E.W.T.s came and went.

Neville had been thrilled to knock out six Excellents and one Outstanding. The top score came in Herbology, to nobody's surprise. His great-aunt Enid had baked him a strawberry shortcake for the family dinner after the results had been owled to him. He and Aunt Enid and Gran and great-uncle Algie had only eaten half the cake, so he brought the leftovers on his next trip to St. Mungo's.

His elder relatives were excited as they could be for him, but he wanted to celebrate with his mum and dad. Since he'd finished at school, he made it a point to visit his parents every Sunday afternoon at St. Mungo's. He realized they didn't know what the cake was for, but they realized that something special had happened. Strawberries were one of his mum's favorite things to eat. Before he left, she pulled him out of his chair and danced with him up and down the halls of the closed ward, laughing and humming all the while.

One pressing question for him now was whether he should continue working with the Harry and Ron and the Aurors as they rounded up Voldemort supporters, or start advanced Herbology training with Professor Sprout. He was flattered that Kingsley had recruited him after the war, but it hadn't taken long for Neville to realize that an auror's life was not for him. Professor Sprout, on the hand, had been chatting about early retirement for a few years now and was looking for her replacement. Neville had been on her shortlist of candidates since his fifth year.

The other question was what to do about this Marriage Law. While he was preparing for exams, he blocked all thought of the law from his mind. Now that the tests were over, he had to figure out what to do about it. So far, his plan was to pretend that it didn't exist and wait for the Aurors to show up on his doorstep, ready to snap his wand in half. They might even be some of the same Aurors he had been working with over the past few weeks. They irony was not lost on him.

After a week of reflection and many long chats with Gran, Neville moved his belongings into a spare bedroom at Hogwarts. It was strange being there as neither a student nor a professor, but it was much more comfortable to have his own room than to share with everyone in a gradually expanding Room of Requirement as he had during the previous year. The castle itself was mostly rebuilt, but there were still a few damaged classrooms, and a portion of the Charms wing was warded off from any wandering students.

Neville took most of his meals in his quarters, although sometimes he joined Ginny at his old house table for dinner. If he sat at the far end, he could spy the Ravenclaw table just on the other side of the Hufflepuff table. Other days, he met George in Hogsmeade at the Hog's Head. Aberforth made a mean Welsh rarebit. The rest of his time was spent in the three small greenhouses Professor Sprout had given over to his care.

* * *

One day in September, Neville's galleon from their old DA meetings buzzed on his nightstand. _Shrieking Shack, Saturday, 3pm._

Thanking Merlin and all the Founders, Neville collapsed on his bed in relief. Hermione must have devised a plan for them all. It also happened to be the first Hogsmeade weekend, so everyone from the DA who was Luna's year or younger was also free to meet up. When Neville arrived, there were already a dozen or so people gathered there: Cho, Justin, Seamus, Ernie, Harry, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Michael Corner and many others.

Luna walked up to him right away. "Hello, Neville. Who have you selected to marry?"

He frowned. "Do you...Do you agree with the law, Luna?"

"No," she replied. "I understand that the members of the Wizengamot are afraid for our future. They needn't be," she said thoughtfully, a soft smile on her radiant face, "but you cannot reason with those who live in fear."

He nodded.

"Are you not getting married?" she asked.

"I can't—No, more than that, I _won't_ —marry unless it's for love." He buried his hands in the pockets of his trousers, kicking the dirt at his feet aimlessly. "It's not right."

"No," she said, sighing. "It's not."

"Hermione was talking about defying the law," he added. "I don't know what it's going to take, but I'm going to fight it."

"Me, too, Neville. There are so many things that are more important than magic." Luna smiled again, slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow. "Freedom and choice, for starters. Family. Friends."

With this girl beside him, telling him she still on his side, Neville was so happy he felt his heart could burst out from behind his ribcage. Luna was with him, and Hermione had figured a way out of this miserable law for all of them.

A large wooden box in the corner shifted to the center of the room, and Hermione climbed atop it. "Can I get everyone's attention?"

The chatter slowed to a halt.

"I asked you all here today to discuss the Ministry's unjust Marriage Law." She pounded her fist in her hand as she spoke.

"Hear, hear," Ernie Macmillan called out.

"Yes, thank you," Hermione said. "Should we be forced to marry against our will?"

The crowd answered in a staggered unison. "No!"

"Should our lives be dictated by a corrupt Ministry?"

"No!"

The energy in the room was undeniable.

Hermione's smile grew, clearly happy that the members of the DA were behind her. "Are we merely breeding stock for the government?"

"No!"

"What are we going to do about it?"

"No!" cried Seamus.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Sorry," he replied, chagrined. "I got carried away."

"Right," Hermione said, taking control of the meeting. "I don't know about all of you, but I'd rather disembowel myself with a broom than offer myself up in marriage and start popping out babies." A murmur of approval and agreement ran through the room. "As far as I can see it, we each have three options. Option one, we stay here and obey the law. We marry and breed for the government. Do we want this?"

The Shrieking Shack resounded with another collective cry. "No!"

"Option two, we stay in the country, but our wands are stolen from us. Our magic is hindered just because we want control of our own lives. Do we want this?"

"No!"

"And option three. This one isn't easy, but I think it's the best choice we have." Hermione held her breath as she surveyed the group of her friends gathered around her. She exhaled slowly. "We can keep our wands if we leave Britain." She hurried through the rest of the information. "Hopefully, we won't have to leave for long. Just until the Wizengamot repeals the law. I've talked with citizenship and immigration services in about a dozen countries. So far, Canada, Australia, Poland, Sweden, and Denmark have all offered protection to people fleeing the Marriage Law."

Several people in the Shrieking Shack started whispering their questions to one another.

"Protection?" Justin Finch-Fletchley asked aloud. He looked skeptically at Hermione, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What kind of protection?"

"I'm glad you asked," she responded. "We would be considered political refugees. It's a status given to people who can't stay in their home country because they would be persecuted by an unjust law."

"Would we ever get to travel home?" Cho Chang asked.

Hermione shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid not. You could try it, but you would risk getting caught. Then you're at the whim of the Wizengamot again, and, I think you'll agree that they're not terribly reasonable these days."

Judging by the frustrated grumbles of most of the people gathered there, they were not happy about this option.

"But your family can visit you," Hermione shouted quickly, trying to win the crowd back to her side. "They can take a Portkey and visit you wherever you end up living. Or you can fly the Muggle way."

This placated everyone in the room.

 _Almost_ everyone.

Neville's chest caved in on itself. It was a physical ache, a pain the likes of which he'd only ever experienced a few times in his life. If he wanted to defy the Marriage Law and leave the country, he'd have to abandon his parents. It was all unbelievably unfair. Nobody else had to leave their families, since they could travel to be with them. His folks deserved to have people they loved spend time with them. They deserved so much more than they had been given. Without his visits, it was just his gran, Algie, and Enid. They were all getting older, and he had no idea how long it would take to repeal the Marriage Law.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Hermione realized the implications of what she'd said. She gasped, then glanced his way, obviously trying not to cry.

Hannah Abbott had her hand raised.

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, snapping back to attention. "Yes, Hannah?"

"Where will live? Houses, apartments?" She looked around the room nervously, not wanting to air the financial questions that some of the wealthier students wouldn't understand. "How much will it cost our families to pay for this?"

"It depends a little bit on which country you end up at. Most have agencies that will pay for all the expenses during your first year there—housing, groceries, and health care. After that, you're on your own, but they will help you find a job or money to pay for further schooling, even language lessons if you need them."

The meeting went on from there, but Neville had stopped listening. Pulling away from the girl by his side, he walked outside into the light, sinking down on his knees in the grass.

If he wanted to honor his parents, there was only one choice he could make.


	4. In Which Severus Takes a Chance

Severus Snape was a dead man.

At least, that's what his official status was at the Ministry of Magic. There had been a mixup in the aftermath of that battle at Hogwarts, and the newly appointed Minister of Magic wasn't about to cop to losing a body. After being surreptitiously retrieved from a pool of his own blood, he was quite content to go alone in the world on his merry way. You had to die before you could be reborn, after all. If the universe owed anyone a fresh start, it was him.

He could have been able to leave the whole of the magical world in his wake, if it weren't for his lingering connection to the family that saved him. Debts were tricky things, and Severus knew they should be paid. His entire adult life was sacrificed on the altar of debts owed. Thankfully, he didn't owe anything to anyone anymore. Had Longbottom found him in the Shrieking Shack, or Hagrid or Aberforth or any number of others, he would have owed them a life debt. But when someone who owes _you_ saves your life? Everything cancels out. Everyone walks away free and clear.

The family Malfoy probably hadn't intended on stumbling upon their old acquaintance when they retreated from the celebratory Great Hall after that final battle. But they those their path through the dark of the Shrieking Shack, and Merlin knows they owed him. The manor had been a bit of wreck after being forced to play host to the Dark Lord, but there was still a healthy supply of medicinal potions and down feather beds and Egyptian cotton sheets. Severus recovered in style. The first month, he was given basic potions and broths by the house-elves. When he was lucid enough to realize all that had happened, he began tailoring the potions to his specific needs. It was a lucky thing for all involved that Draco was more than a narcissistic pile of blonde hair; once Severus was on the mend, he spent his afternoons angrily whispering brewing directions so the boy could make the last of his healing potions.

Four months later, Severus was right as rain. Narcissa and Draco had never left the manor, having been cleared of all charges by reason of coercion. They ran all sorts of errands on his behalf while he sorted out his life. Or their house-elves did. Clearing out the bookshelves at Spinner's End, transferring gold from his rooms at Hogwarts, and processing the will he had left behind. In the meanwhile, Lucius was in the throes of a lengthy public trial. During that time, he had to return to a prison cell at night. It wasn't as though Severus was worried. Lucius always walked away unscathed. He'd be fine, even if he did dirty his silk robes during his brief stay in Azkaban.

As for Severus himself? He decided that he was starting over. He was going to have everything the world denied him on his first go around. Dispose himself of his idiotic name for starters. Narcissa had looked at him cross-eyed for days when he asked her if she thought he looked like a Clive. No? How about Terrance? He got rid of his wardrobe next, tossing his billowing robes and replacing the stuffy buttoned-down jackets with a functional leather coat. Black, of course. He was all for freshening his image, but there was no need to reinvent the wheel. The hair went shorter, to his chin. Clean-shaven as always. He thought about changing his nose, but reconsidered. People were going to take him on his terms this time, and if they didn't? Well, they could kindly fuck off.

Severus Snape was going to partake of wine, women, and song. Not wine _per se_ , since he'd had a run through the Malfoy cellar and decided that hard liquor and beer were more his style, but indulgence. Severus was going to indulge in the things he'd denied himself his entire adult life. Not song, either, since that portion of the saying had never made much sense to him. But women? Oh, he indulged in women. At least, he intended to. A part of him thought that Narcissa might get cold and thankful on one of these lonely nights, but that never panned out. It was all just as well. She was accustomed to a pretty man, and no amount of rebirth would ever make Snape pretty.

Really, dying was the best thing that ever happened to Snape. There were no snivelling students to corral, there were no taxes to pay, and no laws to obey. Now that the Ministry had decided to stick its meddling nose in the affairs of its citizens' bedrooms, there was, in particular, no marriage law to obey.

 _That sly devil_ , he thought. Severus knew Kingsley's birth year. The man had bollocks the size of bludgers to implement a law that terrible, only to skirt it himself. Kingsley had been a bachelor as long as Severus had known him. For that matter, if Kingsley dated at all, nobody knew about it. The man was practically a eunuch.

As it so happened, Severus was also still unmarried. Unmarried and dead was the best way to live, and unmarried and dead, he intended to stay.

* * *

"I'm off," Severus declared one morning after breakfast. He slung a small canvas satchel over his shoulder. Undetectable extension charms allowed him to travel light. "An autumn in Spain will do me good."

"So soon, Severus?" asked Narcissa. She helped herself to a slice of canteloupe and half of a croissant from the silver platter before them. Every meal was a small banquet in the Malfoy home. Severus had gained nearly a stone thanks to the pastry skills of the elves in the kitchen.

"Soon?" he asked. "It's been five months, woman."

"I expect to see you at Christmas," she demanded, graciously accepting a freshly poured cup of tea from one of the Malfoy house-elves. "Lucius should be home then. And at Draco's wedding, of course. We can keep some of your things in the east wing, if you'd like."

"Christmas, yes," he agreed. Then he shook his head. "I will undoubtedly be noticed if I attend Draco's wedding to whoever he ends up engaged to."

"Polyjuice, my dear man," Narcissa said. "Use your brilliance to disguise yourself. I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

Draco groaned, dropping his head to the table. He narrowly missed knocking over his morning cup of tea.

"Buck up, dear," his mum said, swatting him on the back of his head.

"That's easy for you to say," he whinged, shaking his head at his mother and his former professor. "You're not being forced into marriage. Neither one of you is!"

"Why not just pick a girl?" his mother asked. "Find an acceptable one and give her the house in the Cotswalds. You won't even have to see her."

"I always thought," he muttered quietly, "that I'd end up with Pansy." He shot a quick glance at his mother. "We can't even date now, since we're both Purebloods."

Severus resumed a seat a the table, dropping his bag at his feet. He looked at the boy, waiting until he had his full attention. "You have already acquired your N.E.W.T.s, have you not?"

Draco raised his head. "Yes."

"And did passably well, yes?"

He raised his chin. "Better than anyone else in our year." He gritted his teeth. "Except Granger, but she doesn't count."

"Oh, nonsense," Narcissa interjected. "You know we're supposed to acknowledge the merits of people like her these days."

"Muggle-borns?" Draco asked.

"I was thinking of Gryffindors, darling," she said, "but I suppose Muggle-borns as well."

"It's hard not to think of Muggle-borns," Draco snarled, "since the government is set to marry me off to one."

Severus smirked. "Maybe you will acquire the ever-skilled Miss Granger. You can procreate like Nifflers and fill a wing of the manor with your petulant offspring."

Draco's mouth dropped open. "Don't even say something like that in _jest_ , Severus."

Severus clapped the boy on the shoulder. "You have an education. You have an official pardon. You have a significant balance in your Gringotts vaults. What you need is a plan."

"I am open to any and all suggestions."

Opening his satchel, Severus dug out a short stack of newspapers. He pulled open a issue of The Daily Prophet. "According to the latest report, you have one year. Apparently Potter talked Shacklebolt into extending the time frame so that he could marry his mother."

Narcissa looked at him quizzically.

"Have you seen the girl?" Severus asked. "Ginevra Weasley is the spitting image of Lily." He turned to Draco again. "One year. So what are your options?"

"Marry or give up my wand," he said, shaking his head. A chocolate croissant entered his stomach in two bites. "I can't believe they're doing this to me."

"They're doing it to more than just you," Severus said. "Herein lies your advantage."

"Why?"

"Think, boy. How many people wanted this law to pass?"

Draco sighed, picking up an almond danish to devour. "Obviously a majority on the Wizengamot. That's probably it, though."

"Precisely." Severus looked at him, waiting for the shoe to drop. When it didn't, he opened a copy of of The Quibbler. Buried under a cover story about yeti sightings in Staffordshire was one notice about "Learning to Live the Muggle Way, with Hermione Granger" and another about "Political Asylum for Beginners: Paperwork is Your Friend."

"You don't expect me to live as a Muggle?" Draco asked, a look of horror plastered on his delicate features. "Or take Muggle lessons from Granger?"

"Live as a French one," Severus stated. "The food and drink would be to your taste."

"You could live in the Normandy estate," Narcissa added.

Draco looked like he was considering it. "I just don't know that I can live without magic."

"Even with servants?" Narcissa asked. "They take care of all the messy aspects of Muggle life, dearest. If you take the chalet in Normandy, we'd be connected on the Floo as well."

Draco angrily slid a cheese omelette onto his plate. "I'd sooner go anywhere than give up magic."

"I do not believe Miss Parkinson could give up her magic, either," Severus said, watching the young man's reaction. "The girl would be helpless. She even taught the younger girls in her house to apply their nail varnish by wand."

"No," Draco agreed. "Pansy couldn't handle it. She said she'd rather live on the run than live without her wand." He looked at Severus, letting go of a low breath of air. "What would you do if you were in my place?"

Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What would he do if he were subject to the law? He knew instantly, but he didn't think Draco would like his advice. "I would run. Pick up an unregistered wand and head for another country. I would cut all ties and start over, but I would remain my own man."

Draco nodded. "I thought you'd say that. That's what you're doing now anyway, isn't it?" he asked, pointing to the bag packed with all Severus' earthly belongings.

"It's easier for me than it will be for you," Severus replied. "No one will be tracking me. As long as it is only you, your mother, and your father that know I'm alive, I can go wherever I please."

"Stay, Severus," he pleaded. "Just one more week. Just enough time to help me figure a way out of all of this."

Severus looked back and forth between the boy and his mother, their eyes filled with hope and expectation. Grumbling under his breath, he called a house-elf to return his bag to his room.

* * *

Severus spent the next few days considering Draco's choices. If the boy wanted a chance to properly woo Miss Parkinson, both needed to agree to live as Muggles or plan a life on the lam. Frankly, he thought that the two Slytherin youths were too self-involved and high-maintenance to be able to do either. They needed a more stable environment, where their collective money and magic could build them a life of relative ease and purpose. Life in England without their wands was out. Draco would likely injure himself within an hour, trying to fly off a balcony on a vacuum cleaner or some other nonsense. He was cleverer than he let on, but Severus knew that magic was too engrained in him for him to be able to live another way. Life continually dodging the government was out, too. He couldn't imagine that Miss Parkinson was any more resourceful than Draco in that regard. Both of them had inherited more Galleons than sense from their parents, and neither had inherited a will to work terribly hard at anything.

But he had agreed to help Draco out. A parting gift of sorts, before Severus left their home for good. Being Severus Snape had its perks: he knew how to infiltrate a crowd and retrieve information from close-lipped individuals. He could sift through the masses and learn their secrets without their knowing that he'd even been there. Being dead had even greater benefits. He could disguise himself as anyone, go anywhere, and nobody suspected him of a thing.

So it only took three days in Diagon Alley to learn that Hermione Granger was plotting a rebellion. In addition to a set of Muggle classes she was running with Neville Longbottom on how to live without their wands, how to cook from scratch, and how to set up local bank accounts in pounds sterling, she'd successfully shanghaied several foreign governments into offering British citizens protection on their soil. He shouldn't have been surprised by the news. Not after coaxing dozens of house-elves back to the kitchens after her failed coup during her Hogwarts years. Considering she held the fates of several hundred young witches and wizards in her hands, he certainly hoped her revolutionary skills had improved since then.

He returned with the news to Draco that evening. The young man was reading a history of the Malfoy family, stretched out along a chaise in the library with a plate filled with grapes by his side.

Severus pulled up a stool.

"So I could still keep my wand?" the boy asked.

"Yes."

"And I wouldn't have to marry some stranger?"

"No."

"And to get this, I simply have to..." His question trailed off.

"To leave the country under protection, you need to talk to Miss Granger."

"Surely there's another way."

Severus rolled his eyes. Draco's stubbornness was a mile long. "Appeal to her better nature. She'll do whatever you ask if she gets to pat herself on the back for it later."

Cussing and kicking the rug on his way out of the library, Draco decided to follow this advice. "I'll do it!" he called over his shoulder. "I'll talk to her now."

Severus returned to his suite to pack his things. Now that Draco was on his way, Severus would leave for Spain in the morning.

With no commitments of his own and a sizable purse to his name, Severus was going to begin by traveling the world. Travel the world and live. Spain was on the agenda, as were the souks of Morocco. Egypt, India, China. South America he was saving for January. Why not take advantage of the reversal of seasons? He had spent his whole adult life in a dank, dark castle. A cold place. He doubted that his skin could tan, but he would find out just what it was capable of.

In time, Severus thought, he could research and write. Discover new uses for asphodel and blackthorn, create new potions, and develop a public persona abroad that allowed him to perform meaningful work. He could find a country to settle down in and buy himself a house. Maybe even take a wife, if a woman would have him. Pick up a hobby or two in his spare time. He would have it all.

* * *

An hour or so later, Draco burst into his rooms, fuming.

"She won't do it!" he said, pacing back and forth at the foot of the enormous bed.

"Won't do what?" Severus asked.

"Granger refused. She won't even admit to helping other people out of the country. Says that it's illegal to plot against the government, and wouldn't that be terrible if people were trying to evade the laws?" Draco collapsed backwards onto the mattress. He curled up on his side. "Why me?" he asked. "I'm too handsome to marry a Hufflepuff!"

"Cease this sniveling _immediately_." Severus lifted his wand and gave the blond a small jolt to the ribcage. "You didn't weep for the loss of true love at her feet? Didn't mention Miss Parkinson at all? You were supposed to be appealing to her inflated sense of justice, Draco."

"I did!" he exclaimed. "She said that if people were trying to circumvent the government, they must really trust one another to keep that kind of information secret, and then she asked if my father was still fighting his case against the Ministry."

Severus shook his head. Granger was incredibly transparent. Too transparent. In her own way, she was trying to help Draco. "You're a liability to her. She was telling you that she couldn't trust you enough to include you in whatever she's planning."

"How do I change her mind?" Draco asked. "She's my last hope."

"Convince her to trust you."

"In a month?" he scoffed. "Hardly." He looked at Severus as though he was looking at his for the first time.

Snape didn't like it one bit.

"You," Draco said, pointing at his chest. "She trusts you."

"She also thinks I'm dead."

"You could do it," Draco said. "You might be the only one she trusts. At least, the only one will speak on my behalf."

"What the blazes are you talking about?" Severus asked. "I will not reveal myself to Miss Granger."

"You know she'll take your secret to the grave," Draco insisted. "You didn't see her during your memorial service, but she cried her way through a half dozen handkerchiefs, sobbing over your death. After ten minutes with you? She'll let me in on whatever she's plotting."

Severus sighed. On some level, he knew Draco was right. He couldn't say he blamed Granger for her reticence in trusting her former enemy, but it would have been significantly more convenient had she just accepted his apology at face value. Then Draco and Pansy could empty their vaults at Gringotts and start planning their new lives in France or Denmark or wherever they ended up. They could live relatively normal lives, which was a hell of a lot more than Severus had been offered at their age.

She would keep his secret, that he knew. The girl was trustworthy. Granger was like a sheepdog in that regard. She would likely feel tempted to reveal his existence to Potter, but if he pressed her to secrecy, she would hold her tongue. Hadn't she kept Lupin's furry little secret during her third year? Still, he didn't want to take any chances. If he spoke with her, he would do it on his way out of the country.

There was no looking back.


End file.
